Flight of the White Raven

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Like the carved gash that bordered the sea, another land had seemingly appeared overnight. Runar had believed the sound of water to be more present in recent days, though where he once believed spring wells were returning turned to the distant heavy beat that roared softly over the winds. It was far too loud to be from the mountain.

He took to the west, following the sound and smell of heavy falls. It would not take long to find the source, or one of, he would note. Several cliff faces were adorned with flowing rivers, crashing into the next with brilliant sprays. A bears paradise, he’d idly think to himself, so long as the fishing was good.

A nearby call drove birds from their trees, and in turn, the mountain king’s ear. Curiosity befell him as Runar sought it out until his paws brought forth a woman of cardinal and ivory. “Nor might any.” he had only caught the tail end of words, though he only saw the woman to share them. “Land is new, much like yourself?”

Runar tilted his head a fraction with his question, eyes giving a subtle glance for who she had been speaking to. “No name to give, not yet, but Runar comes from mountains. Peaks to east, Runar’s home. Fate’s Summit.”
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